


It's all about proportions

by nikirik



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drabble, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-12
Updated: 2013-07-12
Packaged: 2017-12-19 07:22:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/881020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nikirik/pseuds/nikirik
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alternative ending of Ep 8</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's all about proportions

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Все дело в пропорциях](https://archiveofourown.org/works/817968) by [nikirik](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nikirik/pseuds/nikirik). 



Victory is always temporary. Defeat is the Present Continuous. Will should keep this in mind when he batters the brick chimney above the fireplace in his search for imaginary animals, but it is too much for the brain, because otherwise it would be like opening his own frontal lobes with a chisel. And so he continues to do what he was trained for since childhood -  throwing hooks. Not in order to catch, but in order to keep himself afloat. To his bewilderment he often comes to in the office of his shrink. He is like a marathon runner with a flaming torch of pain, does not remember how he ran here, if the streets were crumbled with snow or the colored flags of falling leaves were lashing him in the face. He spits out the news as if his internals were burnt in the race:

 

"I kissed Alana Bloom."

 

Dr. Lecter's confusion deserves a special bookmark in the book of memories of Will Graham, one of those pages, re-read at night, dog-eared.

 

"You rode for an hour in this snow to tell me about it? What for?"

 

'Why really,' Will repeats to himself, but does not think about Alana, but about the mysterious guest, who did not stay for dessert, but what has he to do with his doctor's personal life?

 

He stammers something about how he always wanted to do it, that she is so kissable, drilling a hole in the impenetrable mask of hospitality on the high-cheekboned face of Hannibal, and somehow unwittingly begins to talk about what no one else ever will know. Animals in my head, they can be exorcised neither by sledgehammer's blow, nor a kiss, they entrap me, in the bear pit, as if it's not there I am, at the very bottom with broken legs. I look at the clot of dusk, listening to someone's howl, maybe mine.

At the far end is Alana, who advises in her most professionally calm voice, "you have to get up, Will, make crutches out of gnawed bones and branches, scratch out steps with your nails in the clay loam", _but I've already called for help and you came_ , he timidly objects, _are you not getting me out of here?_ "No, Will, you have to get out on your own, and then I will love you, and we will live as happily as any normal people." Will turns away and notices at the other edge of the pit someone's on his knees and reaches down a pale knobby hand. "What are you doing, Doctor," trembling with shame and joy, whispers Graham, "you'll ruin such a beautiful suit." And crawls to the hardly glistening eyes the color of dried blood.

 

 Hannibal watches as Will looks forlornly through the offered dish, and thinks about the proportions, that cooking meat, it is impossible not to stain your hands, and Dr. Alana Bloom just wants some ping food. He imagines entering the dining room, carrying a tray with Will's head, dill in the corner of his mouth, excellent brains, would you like a taste? Unaccustomed pity stings into Hannibal's heart. Everyone around wants a piece of Will, but this will not happen. He has already tasted my food, my shelter, my care and friendship, he took my hand and then he's out of the pit he will be on my side.

 

 

 

Will fiercely hates Symphony Orchestra concerts, because who likes to cry in public. Today, given the 2nd Rachmaninoff, he knows that he will pour into tears at the end, because these Russians, they poke you with their music, until you cry. Do not these chords come as a result of your life, charming as despair, bright as fury, touching violently your aorta, till it's ruptured with a bow across your throat?

 

Will does not understand why he is there side by side with Dr. Lecter, and all these people remain calm while his heart is convulsively squeezed, just a little bit more, he knows, and every bump at the keys will be like a discharge, we're losing him, add power , hit him with the sound, so he'll never forget, he's mortal, that all this beauty, in which he wants to bury his face as if in a bouquet, is full of insects, ready to sink into his skin like tick-borne Encephalitis.

 

 

 

Love is an unreasonable double-edged feeling, in which self-interest is mixed with self-denial. It's all about proportions. Hannibal Lecter knows that better than anyone.

 

Horizon cuts up the belly of the crimson sun and all the cotton wool scattered over the sky instantly gets wet, but the sunset is unstoppable. Until it leads to blackness, because blue has always been a fraud, pick at it - and there is only ink in the hemisphere of eye-sockets.

 

Hannibal diverts his attention from the highway rapidly melting in the dark and looks at his companion napping on the passenger seat. The glasses are askew, and he picks them up with a finger slightly touching the nose bridge, till they slip into his palm. For a second Doctor looks at them as if they were some kind of parasite, and then they fly straight out the window, on the asphalt in the dark woods of Maryland. There, where they go, Will won't need no glasses.

 

 

 

In the trunk, tied with his own guts, like meatloaf with a string, Tobias lies in his best suit with a ticket from the Philharmonic pinned to the numb forehead.


End file.
